Chapter Text
Sejanus regains consciousness to the sound of a scream. Half of his face is sunken into the mud, and he can barely breathe. He braces two shaky hands on the ground below him and they squish into it. He tries to raise his head, and his breath is cut off by the feeling of someone’s feet tripping over his skull. It slams back down into the mud, which feels a little like a pillow, and Sejanus gives up. His mind is foggy, and he can barely remember where he is, let alone why. The sound of footsteps pounding all around him reminds him of childhood, of laying his head against his Ma’s chest and drifting off to the sound of her heartbeat.
He wakes again just a few moments later, before he was even genuinely asleep. He is pulled off the ground harshly, and he suddenly remembers one thing—panic. The person who helped him is shouting at him, and tears begin to fill Sejanus’ eyes. He doesn’t know what’s going on. The stranger gives him a shove, and Sejanus stumbles on his way, blindly, towards what he believes is his front porch. The door is cracked open, and Sejanus falls into it, slamming it closed behind himself and locking it, before crumpling back onto the floor. It wasn’t as soft as the mud outside, but the hard, flat surface felt good on his back, and so he accepted the change, and closed his eyes once more.
-
It is silent the next morning. Maybe that’s why Sejanus finally woke back up, truly woke up. His head was beating with a migraine, his mouth was dry, and his muscles and bones felt like someone had been trying to beat him to death. He gagged, once, and groaned loudly, using all of his strength to raise his upper body off the floor.
The events of the day before came to him in fragments. He remembers that girl snapping at him, his father stumbling through the front door like he was drunk, his Ma—
Sejanus’ back straightened suddenly, and he looked around the room. Then, he gagged. Lilaea’s body (or, what was left of it) was crumpled on the ground by the dining table, what remained of her face after meeting the wrong end of a shotgun staring directly at him. Sejanus finally registered the smell, and he gagged once more.
He could not tear his eyes away from her face, though, his mind echoing the words: Shotgun, shotgun.
He scrambled up onto his knees, grasping the windowsill as support, and looked outside. Abandoned on the front porch was the shotgun. Briefly, Sejanus recalled a memory of his father, his dead father, all but throwing him over the railing. Sejanus winced, and his hand instinctively went to the back of his head. His thumb brushed wetness, and he froze. Bleeding is bad. Bleeding is very, very bad.
Sejanus stumbled to his feet, and fell back against the window, which creaked loudly at the impact. His vision went blurry, colours and shapes blending together into an incomprehensible mess. Panic continued to rise within him, and Sejanus whimpered slightly, shuffling forward, towards the bathroom. The sound of his feet dragging against the floor called back an image of Lilaea, dragging herself down the staircase. Sejanus swallowed thickly, throwing a glance towards her body, as if it would rise back up to come after him. But it was still, and the house was silent.
Sejanus flicked on the bathroom light and fell into the counter, looking up at himself in the mirror. He was covered in mud and blood, the colours melding into his dark red shirt as if they were meant to be there. He turned his head to the left, as far as he could while still being able to see his reflection, and exhaled so deeply that dots entered his vision. His head was not bleeding. He had a cut, which seemed only mildly deep, at the base of his hairline, on his neck. Everything else must be a concussion.
Remembering ‘everything else’, Sejanus looked down, to his torn and wet pants. The fabric, like his shirt, was torn in some areas, revealing scrapes and bruises, but otherwise he was unharmed. Based on the way his entire body throbbed and burned, he could only assume the colourful array of bruises and sores he would find underneath his clothes.
Sejanus turned on the tap suddenly, and dunked his head into the sink, drinking like he’d been starved for water. Maybe he had been. Sejanus had no idea how long he’d been out for.
As it turns out, he really had been starved, as once he pulled his head away from the sink to take a breath, he realised how much clearer his thoughts seemed, how his heartbeat seemed to slow back to an average pace. Sejanus took this moment of clarity, and used it to think ahead.
The shotgun. That was the first step. He needed to retrieve the shotgun from outside. The dead are walking and they are violent, so Sejanus needs that protection above all else.
Next on the list was clean himself, get new clothes, address his injuries before something insignificant becomes dangerous.
Then…Sejanus didn’t know. Should he head out to look for others? Get supplies? The thought of going outside terrified Sejanus, and he huffed, looking back into his reflection.
“You have to,” he said aloud, and his voice was grating, hoarse. He swallowed thickly, and repeated himself. “You have to.”
And so, part A of his plan was in effect. Sejanus moved, a little steadier now, out of the bathroom, and towards the front door. He moved quickly, as mindlessly as he could make himself, and unlocked the door. He hesitated with his hand around the handle, but only for a moment, before creaking the door open just enough for himself to slide through.
Outside was eerily normal, when ignoring the very obvious chaotic footprints in the mud (and the print of Sejanus’ body just off the edge of the porch). Sejanus took a cautious step forward. Nothing happened. It was entirely still. Sejanus took three more steps forward, and leaned over to pick up the shotgun. He flinched at the sound it made, and glanced around quickly. But there was still nothing. Something felt so horribly off, and Sejanus blinked, looking down towards the shotgun in his hands. The barrel had a light spray of blood on it.
Briefly, Sejanus recalled the sound of gunfire, an unholy sort of scream. A shiver ran down his spine, and he trudged back into the house, as quickly as he could manage. Okay, part A complete.
Sejanus choked on yet another gag when he saw Lilaea again, having forgotten in his haziness that she was there in the first place. Okay. Part A2.
Sejanus shuffled forward, putting the gun down on the nearest surface, a knocked over dining chair. A mixture of disgust, terror, and some great sadness was overwhelming Sejanus as he grew closer and closer to the poor girl’s body, but he continued moving, tensing his muscles so tightly it brought tears to his eyes. He picked up one of her arms, held it far away from himself, and paused for a moment. Lilaea was still. Sejanus swallowed, steeling his nerves, and grabbed her other arm to drag her.
Unfortunately, he only just made it to the front door before one of his knees gave out, and he dropped Lilaea’s arms, nearly falling face-first into her brain matter. Sejanus swallowed even more nausea, and pulled himself away from her, catching his breath as he fell back against the floorboards. Part A2 postponed.
His breathing was shaky, and his head was thumping, but he pulled himself back up again, and stared back down at the girl with a trembling jaw. Was it even a good idea to abandon Lilaea’s body outside the house? Would that just serve to…lure things in? He briefly thought of a story his Ma would tell him, something about goat’s blood and doorframes, and he shuddered, heart squeezing painfully at the memory.
Maybe Lilaea should stay inside, then. Tucked away, somewhere where she can’t be bothered. Where Sejanus can’t see her.
Sejanus took one deep breath. Then another. Then a third. Then, he quickly rose back to his feet, and grabbed Lilaea’s arms again. His intention was to bring the girl back up to the extra bedroom, but, upon observing the stairs, realised that was going to prove impossible right now. He dipped his eyes down, just to the side of the stairs, and continued to drag Lilaea. There was a small couch in his father’s office. It was old, uncomfortable, and very unfitting for a young girl’s resting place, but it would do until Sejanus could manage stairs.
Getting her into the office was easy (minus the burning and throbbing of Sejanus’ arms and head). It was lifting her off the floor and onto the seat that was the issue. Raising her up by the arms was what was causing all the issues, because Sejanus didn’t want to pull too hard and dislocate something (as if she could feel it), but he also didn’t want to reach his hands any closer to the viscera that remained of her head.
On his fourth try, where Lilaea’s head fell heavily down towards the ground and dragged the rest of her body with it (flecking some bits of old blood onto Sejanus’ shins), Sejanus swallowed his nausea to make room for frustration. He grabbed her by the shoulders, and lifted, holding back from flinching as her head came up, and fell back against Sejanus’ chest. Using all of his strength to both not throw up and not drop Lilaea, he pulled her upper body over to the seat, and let her head flop onto the armrest. As quick as he could manage, before she fell off again, Sejanus drug himself to the other side and lifted her feet, dangling them over the opposite armrest.
For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Sejanus fell back to the floor, stopping his body with his hands and knees before he cracked his own skull. Gently, he let himself lay upon the ground, and curled himself into a ball. His heart thrummed with terror, recalling that he had let the shotgun in the other room, but his eyes were already starting to lose focus, his limbs already too heavy. Once more, Sejanus slept.
